A Proposition
by Queen of the Beasties
Summary: James Moriarty has a propsition for Hannibal Lecter. (Based off of a tumblr gifset I found.) Rated T for violence.


**A/N: This is based off a gifset I saw on tumblr. Some of the dialogue I stole, but the rest is mine (except for the ownership of these two fabulous shows, of course, which is not).**

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"Join me, Dr. Lecter," insisted James Moriarty, helping himself to an armchair in the center of a flat that was not his own. Despite this, he seemed to be treating it as such, perching his feet up on the table before him. He gestured to another seat in front of him. "Take a load off," he said, inviting the man still standing to sit, too. "Come on. Think of it as another one of your therapy sessions."

"I am not a patient man, Mr. Moriarty," said his guest. "I will not play games with you. Why have you brought me here?"

"Sit down," said Moriarty slowly, insistently. It was clear he would say no more until Dr. Lecter did so.

After a moment, his guest obliged, saying casually, "If you insist."

"It would be _rude _of me not to." Moriarty grinned. "Are you comfortable, Doctor?"

"Very," said Hannibal, "but I have no time for pleasantries. I ask you again, why have you brought me here?"

"Persistent, are we?" Hannibal said nothing, but continued to stare at him, waiting. After a moment, Moriarty continued, "We have something in common, you and I. Or, should I say, someone? _Two_ someones, rather?"

"If you could get to the point, Mr. Moriarty."

"We both are under the unfortunate circumstance of having someone in our lives who is under the impression that it is their job to ruin our fun." Moriarty looked up at Hannibal with a sly grin, as if he wanted to savor Hannibal's reaction when he said, "I've got Sherlock Holmes...and you have Will Graham."

Hannibal showed no outward emotion to this, but Moriarty's knack for observation revealed to him the surprize in the other man's eyes at the mention of the latter name, if only slight and for a brief moment.

"Tea, Dr. Lecter?" Moriarty offered suddenly. "I could call for Mrs. Hudson, if you like. No? How about a _snack_?"

"I must decline. I am very particular about what I put into my body. Therefor, I only eat food I have prepared myself."

"Really? How very interesting. Well, don't mind me. Go ahead. Eat."

At first, Hannibal was not entirely sure what Moriarty meant by this, but when his eyes glanced down at the luggage next to his chair, he understood.

"Please do eat," continued Moriarty. "Don't be polite for my sake. I've got my own." And with that, Moriarty reached into an inside pocket and produced what appeared to be a slim jim. It was such a random thing for a psychopath to pull out of his jacket that for a moment even Hannibal was slightly baffled. "Go on." He gestured with the wrapper at Hannibals bags, and Hannibal stooped down to retrieve what was supposed to be his supper from the appropriate one.

"Bon appétit," said Moriarty, and with that he ripped a piece of meat off the tip of the stick with his teeth. Hannibal went along with it, and began to tuck into his meal, which was something called _choucroute garnie_, normally made with sausage, sauerkraut, and potatoes.

Hannibal prepared his a little differently.

He was patient with this Moriarty. More so than most. Although he did not know him well, he had a grim idea of what the man was capable of. He had the power to do whatever he liked - How else would he have found a retired medical doctor at his modest psychiatric practice in the middle of Maryland? And the fact that he knew who Will Graham was and seemed to understand their connection kept Hannibal on his toes. Moriarty was different. He could not simply be killed, or else Hannibal would have been rid of him a long time ago, the moment he knew the man was aware of his secrets. But that could never be done so easily. Not with him. Too many people watching. If Moriarty was killed, and he, Hannibal, found responsible, even by the right people, he would most certainly be killed as well. Or worse, exposed. No, this man had to be dealt with carefully. At the same time, Hannibal's patience was wavering, and he broke the silence. "You still haven't told me why I am here. Where are we, exactly?"

"221B Baker Street, London."

"I saw the address on the door when we arrived. What is its purpose? Who owns it?"

Moriarty did not answer, but took another joyous bite out of his slim jim.

Hannibal bit back his quickly-growing impatience and swallowed it with a bite of his own food. "You could at least tell me _why _I am here."

"I have a proposition." The man before him said, an almost mad gleam in his eye.

"And what is your proposition?"

"We both have our problems," began Moriarty, helping himself to a piece of what he was well aware of not being sausage at all off of Dr. Lecter's tray. Popping it into his mouth, he continued, "I have Holmes and you have Graham. We should give each other a hand."

Hannibal met eyes with his new acquaintance, dislike and even slight worry betraying his facade of indifference for a fraction of a second. Cooly, but professionally, he responded, "Will is not a problem."

Moriarty giggled. Almost gleefully, he said, "He is trying to expose your eating habits." A curl of a smile formed to compliment the man's mad eyes, making it crystal clear to Hannibal that this Moriarty was every bit as insane as he appeared. He was brilliant, yes. After all, it had taken him mere moments to deduce the doctor's secrets when they met, something that had taken a man known for his almost superhuman ability to empathize with criminal minds months to come to terms with. And yet, there was a certain thing about this man that not even Hannibal could completely place. Something that told him that he was not all there.

This was not the kind of psychopath he was willing to get chummy with.

Abandoning his professional demeanor, he pushed his tray to the side and leaned forward in his chair until he and Moriarty were mere inches apart. Moriarty did not shy away, but looked him dead in the eyes, as if daring the other man to do something to him. To hurt him. Quietly, Hannibal warned, "If you touch Will, I will kill you."

The gleam in Moriarty's eyes glistened with satisfaction. Leaning back in his own chair, he said, "Now, that _is_ interesting."

Unfazed, Hannibal continued, "Last serial killer who tried to be friends with me had an unfortunate end. Be careful, Mr. Moriarty." And with that, Hannibal rose from his seat and turned to leave. As he reached the door, however, he could hear footsteps coming from the other side, ascending the staircase. He retracted his hand from the doorknob, thinking quickly but calmly through his options. He glanced back at Moriarty's chair, then did a double take when he realized that the man was no longer there. He scanned the room, but it was no good. He was most certainly gone.

The footsteps became louder, and soon they had reached the door. Hannibal could hear four of them, which meant that two people were about to enter the flat. From the other side of the door, he could hear voices. He picked a name out of them. - "John."

A key in the lock. The door turning. Hannibal positioned himself flat against the wall next to the door, ready for a struggle. Ready to kill.

The door opened, and two men walked in, one right after the other. Neither noticed the intruder now facing their backs, but continued their conversation while one pulled a blue scarf over his head and the other sank heavily into the armchair Hannibal had just occupied moments ago. He had a perfect opportunity to leave, and he almost did - two murders would bring unnecessary attention - but before he had the chance to back quietly out of the room, one of the men's voices caught his attention.

"John," it announced calmly, as the man stared out the window - or, rather, at the reflection of the room behind him in the glass, where he could see Hannibal standing next to the door, "It seems we have a visitor."

"What d'you - ?" said the other man, peering around at the door. Spotting Hannibal, he jumped up from the chair and announced, "Jesus!"

Without further ado, Hannibal lunged forward and snatched up a side table before smashing it over the head of his closest victim - the man called John. He was unconscious before he hit the floor, a trickle of dark blood streaming from beneath his light hair where he had been struck. Hannibal did not give him a second glance, intent on reaching the remaining man before he could escape. The table now lying in pieces around John, Hannibal wrapped his hands around the other man's neck, sending the stranger to the ground while he pinned him down with his hands and knees. The man coughed and gasped for air, and Hannibal squeezed harder, locking eyes with him as he did so. This was what he did when he killed, if he got the chance. He enjoyed watching the life leave his victim's eyes. To know that he was the cause of it gave him an enormous feeling of power over other people. Over the lesser.

But, it was different this time. When he killed, he was accustomed to seeing fear, but in this man, there was nothing of the sort. There were emotions there, definitely. Confusion, surprise, anger - but no fear. And there was something else, too. The way this man looked _back_ at him, boring right back into his gaze as he squeezed the life out of him. It was something different, something he had only ever seen in one other person.

Understanding.

This man knew. Somehow, he could see everything, just by looking at him. He knew who Hannibal was, other than simply his attacker. He could see the monster inside him. The evil. Just by locking eyes he could see the cannibal's entire life story up to this point. All of his deeds. All of his sins. The man's eyes grew wide with a new expression. _Horror._

Suddenly, Hannibal let go of him, quickly, as if the other man's throat had scorched his fingers. The stranger lay unconscious like his friend, but neither were dead. Yet. Hannibal intended on finishing them off, and was about to do so, starting with the smallest of the two, but something stopped him.

On the table, or what was left of it, a note had been placed. It lay next to John's face now, two lines of words written in black ink etched on one side. Hannibal stooped to pick it up, and read:

_If you touch Sherlock,_

_I shall reply in kind. :) -M_

He had actually drawn a smiley face. The man really was insane, Hannibal concluded. Still, he knew what James Moriarty was capable of, which meant that prison walls would not stop him from taking revenge if he, Hannibal, killed Sherlock Holmes.

So he left. Left the two men lying on the floor, unconscious, but breathing. If he left London that day, he knew no one would be able to find him when they woke up and reported the attack to the police. No one would think to look for the man responsible for an English break in in Baltimore, Maryland, where no one would know he had ever been gone in the first place. He was safe either way, but sparing these two lives would keep Will safe as well.

As he walked calmly down Baker Street, he thought back to the man he had nearly strangled to death back in the flat, the man he now concluded to be Mr. Holmes. From what little he knew of him, he could tell he was much like Will. He could see people for what they were. Could see Hannibal for what he was. All of his flaws. All of his sins. Everything.

And that scared him.

No matter how much he did not want to admit it, he could not deny that he indeed scared him.

Sherlock Holmes scared Hannibal Lecter.


End file.
